“I have been passionate about creative writing since I was young and have read all the old poetry that I’ve been able to get my hands on – which possibly explains my old-timey-tragic-poet style.”
A Poet’s Voice
I have a poet’s voice.
Sad, and low – a melting pot of accents and tonation poached from literature.
My pitch never raises above a soft drone, as if I am trying to avoid waking a sleeping child.
Listening to me, you cannot tell where I have come from; only where I have been.
I have been laying in the pages of Poe, Frost, Ginsberg – anything but my own thoughts.
I have left behind all origin, for it does not matter where I have come from, only what I have read.
I have reached into my chest and torn my voice from its chords and replaced it with the essence of others, my insides a haphazard patchwork quilt of similar suffering.
I am an echo of words already spoken.
My voice is not my own.
I have a poet’s voice.
Puzzles
When I was younger,
I was always taught
to start a puzzle
at its corner.
Now that I’ve grown,
I’ve learned it’s not
so bad to start
all over.
The Locust
“Why are you always so afraid?” The locust asks me, its horns twitching.
“The same reason you are so feared,” I respond. “Because a very powerful being decided we would be this way and we were helpless to stop it.”